The Nobody People

of Owen’s room. It would be feral. It would hit you the minute you walked in. A trigger scent. Body odor and the grease off discarded fast-food containers. He thinks of what Emmeline said, about finding her eating French fries. His daughter on the lam, trailing ketchup packets in her wake.
Avi takes another look at the pictures. Containers and wax paper from fast food lie around the room. Each one has a plump smiling chicken orbited by a star. Planet Chicken. The place Owen Curry worked in the mall food court. He was wearing his uniform in the footage from Salem Baptist. Avi thinks of Owen’s complexion, the flurry of zits on his cheeks.
“Kid’s an addict,” he mutters. He googles “Planet Chicken Chicago.”
Two results. One is out in Cicero. The other is in Roseland, within walking distance of Salem Baptist.
—
Avi wonders who would laugh harder, Kay or Louis. Louis would laugh. Kay would worry for his sanity. Avi Hirsch, invalid investigator. Gimp gumshoe. One-legged detective. He parks the minivan in the parking lot of a strip mall a half mile past Salem Baptist, in front of Planet Chicken. He has a printout of Owen Curry’s senior high school photo, unsmiling, and a flip notepad to make himself look legit.
It’s too early in the day for much of a lunch crowd. Three young black employees stand behind the counter. They’re wearing the beige polo shirts Owen Curry is wearing in the footage. On the chest, the fat chicken with the orbiting star, bright yellow and red. They make themselves look busy even though they’ve already done everything there is to do.
“Welcome to Planet Chicken, can I help you?” asks the girl. The other two flank her, looking at Avi. He’s self-conscious about how long it takes him to make it to the counter, worried he’s hobbling.
“I’m looking for someone,” he says.
“You a cop?” asks the taller boy.
Avi shakes his head. “Reporter,” he says.
“If you’re a cop, you’ve got to tell us,” the boy says.
“I do,” says Avi. “Except I’m a reporter. Like I said.”
“Who’re you looking for?” the girl asks.
Avi offers her the photo, and she takes it. The boys lean over her shoulders to look.
“Oh, shit,” says the shorter boy. “It’s Employee Discount.”
“You know him?” Avi asks.
“He came in a couple times,” says the girl. “He’s got a shirt from another location. Looks like it hasn’t been washed all year. Every time he comes in, he asks me if he gets an employee discount. Like I didn’t already tell him no ten times.”
“Kid can’t tell black people apart,” says the taller boy. “He pulled the same shit with me three times last week.”
“How long has he been coming around?” Avi asks.
“Week and a half?” says the girl. Two days before the church bombing.
“Any chance he paid with a credit card?” Avi says.
They all shake their heads.
“Crisp bills, every time,” says the taller boy.
“Paid with a hundred one time,” the girl says. “You could cut yourself on the corners.” She hands the picture back.
“What’d he do?” asks the taller boy.
“I’m not sure yet,” Avi says, avoiding eye contact.
“Fucker did the church,” says the girl. The other two look at Avi for confirmation.
“Yeah,” Avi says, staring down at his notepad. “Fucker did the church.”
“So he’s blown to shit?” the shorter boy asks.
“We saw him in here fucking yesterday,” says the taller boy. Avi looks up at him to confirm that he’s not bullshitting, but the taller boy’s not even looking at Avi. He’s reminding his coworker. Avi gets the rush of excitement and dread that comes immediately before something huge happens. It’s the feeling of seeing the bomber in the souk, of spotting the white van pull up to the curb. A coppery taste floods his mouth, one he hasn’t experienced since he felt the JLTV begin to lift into the air underneath him. He’s disturbed to realize he’s missed it.
“You see him with anyone?” Avi asks. “You see him in a car?”
“He walks out of here,” says the girl. “Heads that way.” She points away from Salem Baptist, down the road.
“How do you know?” the shorter boy asks.
“I knew he was a sketchy motherfucker, so I kept an eye on him,” she says. “Cops come around looking for somebody, you want to have someone to give them.”
“You guys have been a huge help,” says Avi. He fishes out his wallet and takes out two twenties. He hands one to the girl and one to the taller boy.
“What about me?” says the shorter boy.
“You didn’t know shit,” the girl says.

In stories, when people find out they’re special, part of them already knew. Owen Curry didn’t have that part. His mother made a point of telling him how not special he was. How he was lucky to even have a job and to stop with his retarded talk about college. She sat at the kitchen table, smoking Parliaments and listening to James Taylor on the tinny speaker of her phone, expecting Owen to stand there until she finished running him down. When she started wheezing and coughing, he went upstairs to his room with a Dozen Bucket from the Planet and stared at the bubble gum–pink ceiling. His mother had painted his whole room pink, like a womb. Calming, she said, but the pink crept into his dreams. Owen was having weird dreams. He was in a room, a big shimmering room, like Cinderella’s ball. The room was full of people. He could hear them talking, but it was like background party noise in a movie. No words, just blah blah blah. No one noticed him. No one ever noticed Owen, even in his fucking dreams.
No one trusted him either. In part because he couldn’t sit still. He was twitchy. He fidgeted. Also clumsy. Especially around girls. Even ones who weren’t superattractive, but more in his league. Amanda Smoot, who worked with him at Planet Chicken, was not a ten by any